The Unlucky Gentlemen Of Fortune
by A Road Unturning
Summary: On the eve of a new voyage, Jim Hawkins finds himself highjacked. SLASH John Silver/Jim Hawkins. Main elements from Muppet Treasure Island.
1. A Dream Drenched In Salt

**Disclaimer: I do not own Treasure Island or Muppet Treasure Island. **

**Note – This is a strange mishmash of the two films. There are no muppets in this, as I am a terrible writer with no variety or daring - (I find it hard to write solid drama in the company of Gonzo the whatthehell and Rizzo the Rat) so all Muppet characters are now human. Bear with me on this one. The background story is basically Muppet Treasure Island but just imagine they were all human. Thank you.**

**This chapter is short because it is an epilogue and offers a background for the story.**

**Warnings – SlASH. Loads of the stuff. The pairing is Silver/Jim, and I do believe that it is going to get a little bit graphic. (Tastefully mind, I'm not one for detail.) Also violence and maybe complex themes.**

**Please review if you can. ^^ This fabulous pairing gets absolutely no LOVE. **

**Tense changes are intentional.**

**Gentlemen Of Fortune**

_In his mind's eye, he can see him._

_Seeking out the solace of the shadows, his broad, strong frame leaning against the rotting wood of his humble ship's galley. His hands, marred by toils and rough rope and cutlass, whittle away at the tough, yellow skin of a single potato. They are calloused, inured, hard hands, which still manage any task with a enviable dexterity; he handles the lame vegetable as if carving the Lord's face into gold. Dulled rays of sun cut though the creaking boards above him, basking his form in a hazy, half-lighted nonchalance. Straggles of black curls sit on his shoulders; his eyes are hooded, lazy, and burning. They are tawny eyes, deep and bemused and guarded; within their hazel rims, there are lingering specks of sea green, that flash spectacularly whenever a certain mood takes him. It is as if the ocean has imprinted her claim on him, stretching out her watery embrace within his very core, that sometimes spills into those expressive chasms. His eyebrows are arched, defined; his full, sensual mouth hidden behind a short, albeit greying, beard. _

_He hums an old ditty under his breath; his voice is hushed, but thick and throaty; his worn clothes dense with salt and cooking oil. _

_Beneath his sturdy waist, one trouser leg flaps uselessly. A crutch is propped up against the wall. The other wiry foot taps in cheery rhythm to his small tune. John Silver lifts his face, and smiles; his teeth blinding, his grin bordering on mania._

_A clotted, choking mist invades the galley; consuming the form of Silver and that dratted, haunting, unnerving toothy smirk, and heaving the atmosphere until it is impregnable to the human eye. The quivering dial of a compass spasms and jerks, unsure of its bearings. Severing the heavy silence, comes a rich, soaring, crazed laugh; it swoops and crackles until it sounds like heavy, bitter sobs._

_The mist dives towards him, and suffocates the air in his lungs._

James Hawkins struck his head on the empty bunk above him.

Blood mingled with his sweat.

Jim groaned from the sudden impact; despite the fleeting, yet painful distraction, the dregs of the wretched dream still tauntingly prickled the ends of his consciousness.

It took him a minute to secure his bearings.

The dismal hovel in which he was residing was his old bunk at the Admiral Benbow. Cramped and little, it was less then basic, and was hardly reasonable living quarters. Especially concerning his latest dreams, that carved out a certain deceiving scoundrel from the bitter recesses of memory...

Jim threw off his threadbare blanket; feeling the cool, banal press of the floorboards beneath his toes. The only look out the room offered was a small window; the stagnant, complete blackness lurked beneath the glass, allowing Jim to see nothing of the world outside. Since his "adventure," it seemed his very presence tainted the moon; gone were the light, airy, clear nights of his earlier years. Now, the evenings were long and dark and shrouding, and seemed to ring with his loneliness, as Jim sat and waited for his life to begin.

Four years had passed, and Jim was no longer a child by any stretch of the imagination. Eighteen years old, he had grown strong and taller; his flaxen hair thick, still cut to his neckline; his features had become less babied, more defined and masculine. His blue eyes, however, was still the colour of an early morning sky; a sweet blue that still spoke of innocence.

Captain Smollett had been impressed by that quick witted, compassionate, talented boy, and had promised to train him to become a great sailor. And a great sailor Jim was becoming; naturally gifted with navigating and strategy, he liked to believe it was the spirit of his father that inspired this mysterious skill. The sea was in his blood, and Smollett and Livesey sought to teach him as a brilliant, useful recruit who would pledge his allegiance the service of the King.

Beneath all this glory however, slivered a deadlier form of ambition. Hawkins had once been in the company of pirates; bloodthirsty, conniving, sadistic _gentlemen of fortune _that ransacked his trust and attempted to initiate him into their unholy ranks. The forerunner of all of this, was the forever smiling, the forever laughing, the forever gracious and charming Long John Silver, who had beamed at Hawkins as if he was some blessed protege. Hawkins, young and foolish and desperately in need of a guardian, had warmed to the charismatic rogue, who had returned almost instantly this affection with a certain (and some would say; Jim was no fool, the mutterings of Arrow and Smollett had not gone unnoticed) unnatural gusto.

He had tinkered on the abyss of a completely different world; a world of adventure, riches, blood, betrayal, and twisted brotherhood. It had been shining and soiled and bizarre, an array of forbidden fruit, but it was the sombre, hard, Christian values so present in Jim that had won out.

"_Darn it, Jim...! I could never harm you. You're honest and brave and true...you didn't learn that from me."_

The fatal mist of that cold night, the winking moon masking the hesitant waves in a ghostly shimmer; the figure of Long John, with despair and relief and regret clashing in his eyes...the slow slap of his oars plunging into the still ocean; the dilatory movement of the lifeboat wading further and further out until it was swallowed by the clasping, merciless embrace of the elements. The sting of tears in his eyes.

Jim sighed as he crossed the room. Dreams, or so they had become, nightmares, about what he had experienced racked his unruly mind. Especially now, as time ticked closer to his newest voyage, cruising with none other then Smollett, it was if the past was branching closer, as if in protest.

Jim Hawkins didn't belong in the prim, righteous, pious world of the god fearing sailor; and he wasn't sure he even belonged with the grim, dirty scallywags to who Silver had entertained those years ago. He found he feared purgatory more then the fiery, loose, hedonistic gates of hell or the tight throttle of heaven.

Jim closed his eyes and leant his heavy head against the glass. Its soothing chill calmed the storm inside of him.

Of course he would obey Smollett. Become a honourable sailor, maybe even a first mate like his father; marry a pretty, mild girl and have children, sons even, that he could too inspire to roam the turbulent waves and...

It had been the changing, harsh ocean that claimed his father; the unpredictable, sociopathic sea that broke his mother's heart and the freezing air of its waters that dried the tears on her cheeks and froze the blood in her veins. To think that such a thing of nature would submit to any plan was ridiculous.

Abandoning thought, Hawkins once more took to his bed. In the brightness of morning, his thoughts and emotions would once more be balanced; no more images of smirking John Silver dictating his future actions hidden behind his eyelids.

Even now, he was haunted by the pirate. Haunted by his eyes and smile and promises, and the weight of a steady hand on his shoulder.

Outside, hidden within the murk of September mist, was the outline of a broad figure. Observant eyes noted the creaking sign of the Benbow; a smirk teased a corner of a full mouth; a crutch hit the ground in a rhythmic step as the mysterious man melted into the soaking blackness of night.

In five hours, it was to be dawn.

_**Hopefully, I shall update soon. If you have enjoyed/hated/been mildly put out, all reviews and crit are welcomed. x**_


	2. In The Study Of Captain Smollett

NOTE- _I found out that Jim was sixteen in the original Muppet Treasure island, so the happenings of the main action have been changed from happening four years ago to two. I will correct this in the first chapter eventually, but just a shout out. :)_

_This fic will have a mix of some humour and drama. Variety is best, so don't be too alarmed if some goofiness pops up. Silver doesn't make an appearance yet, but someone you may not be expecting does. ^^ This ficlet is my "pleasure fic," something I am doing for fun as opposed to killing myself over. I bet you all I end up killing myself over this damn thing anyway. I don't really like this chapter...I want to get to the pirates, god damn! It should be longer, anyway. ._

_Disclaimer – I own nothing._

_Chapter 2: In The Study Of Captain Smollett_

He woke too soon, spurned by the opaque, golden sunlight that had settled outside his window. The mist had cleared, leaving in its wake a cold, stark morning, bathed in a gentle, watery, September sun.

If that hadn't caused him to rise, then the shrill bark of Mrs Bluberidge's voice shaking the rafters was surely enough to wake him.

"_JAMES HAWKINS! Up with ya!"_

Jim groaned, battering the sleep from his eyes. He fixed the sloped roof with a suspicious stare, still aware of the blossoming bruise blooming on his brow.

"_JIM! I want ya down here in five minutes! And trust me lad, I'm countin'!"_

Somethings never changed. Even with the arrival of treasure maps, cold blooded pirates, a burnt out inn and a hidden fortune, Mrs Bluberidge still remained as loud, and as brusque, as ever. The tavern had suffered much from the attack from the pirates...true to say, it would never be the same, but a few gold doubloons from the remains of Flint's trove did more then fix it up. It fixed it up fancy, and business no longer dawdled, but boomed.

Despite all her bite however, Jim knew deep down that Mrs Bluberidge was a decent sort. She seemed to house a rough affection for him, even at the tender age of seven when he had appeared on her doorstep; half starved, shaking, and near to death from cold. It was then he had shacked up with Gerard and Richard...or more informally, Gonzo and Rizzo, their much preferred nicknames. Jim suddenly felt a pang for his old friends, who had both been taken in by Squire Trelawney to act as apprentices in his ship building company. According to their letters from London, Gonzo was still entertaining ideas of grandeur, and Rizzo was well fed. Basically, they were happy, and that all that mattered. It still didn't pause the drawing of his eye to their empty, dusty beds.

James Hawkins was to be trained to be a brilliant sailor, under the watchful eye of Smollett; his cause had then been to remain with Mrs Bluberidge as her lodger (whilst still working for her, of course) and undergo his lessons. Today he was to meet with Captain Smollett in a hour; to settle his new position as a trainee officer on-board a enterprising voyage. The ship was to sail in three days, and so, James Hawkins's life was about to begin.

He appeared at the top of the stairs, clean and freshly dressed; Mrs Bluberidge, a large, solid, hard faced woman, tossed aside a rouge glass and sniffed at his appearance.

"Your collar is all crooked, boy! C'mere..." She threw out a strong hand to beckon him closer. "Ya want to look presentable for the captain, don't ye?"

Jim sheepishly nodded, edging forward like a man to the guillotine. Scoffing at this foolishness, Mrs Bluberidge reared forward to clutch the offending garment in her vice like grip. Jim fought the edge to wince at she forcibly "corrected" him...it was an experience not unlike having one's neck wrung .Throughout this tedious action, she insisted on roughly bleating out jumbled advice and commands.

"Remember your P's and Q's, Jim! Stand up straight, address him as "Sir"...none of this "Smolley" rubbish, and for the all the love on God's green earth, Jim, do NOT make eyes at that salted, preening wench of his that goes under the unholy address of Benjamina Gu-whatever! Nod and speak when spoken to, like a good Christian boy..."

He was suddenly released.

The shock sent him almost hurtling into the table. Securing himself on his feet, he was even more surprised to hear no retaliation for being so clumsy; his disbelief strengthened when he saw, for the first time in forever, Mrs Bluberidge doing something completely impossible; being _silent._

She was staring at him with a strange look in her eyes; it was intense and observant. A rare, bitter smile pulled at her lined mouth. She scrutinised his breeches, his cotton shirt; his old, polished boots, his strengthening features.

"Why, Jim," she uttered softly, crossing her arms meaningfully. "You're no longer a boy, are ye? You are a good, Christian man."

Fleetingly, ever so fleetingly, Jim noted what seemed to be a deceiving wetness around her eyes. But then it was gone, as quickly as it came, and all he felt was the blunt press of her nails grinding into his skin; pushing him out of the door and into the bustling street.

"Ye better behave boy, if ya know what's good for ye! Not many lads are as lucky as ye! Lets hope you have fools luck, eh? Bah!"

And the door of the Admiral Benbow slammed shut.

Captain Smollett was a kind man, with even principles and a hidden steel. He was tall and fair, with a face sculpted by clean living and one would assume, a childhood of Sunday Mass. And it was this pure, smiling visage that greeted him at the door, had shook his hand vigorously, and ushered him into a modest, if not richly furnished, lounge. Smollett seated himself opposite Jim on his grand oak desk; a image that would have been imposing if it had been anyone else.

"Now, Jim..." Smollett's voice was quiet, yet firm, as always. "How are you keeping?"

Pushing all manners of disturbing pirate dreams out of his mind, Jim replied with what he hoped looked like a _genuine _smile.

"Fine, thank you." Bluberidge's scowl sprang across his mind. "_Sir."_

Smollett nodded, moving around his desk to look at Jim Hawkins directly. It was only at this moment that Jim noted the extra heaviness weighting his person; the uncharacteristically troubled glint in his eye, the slowness of his step, the slight fret in his smile. The door behind him opened; he didn't need to turn to know who it was. The stiff, militant footsteps told him instantly that it was the cold, polished personage of Samuel Arrow.

Smollett raised his gaze to silently greet his friend. Arrow was a dark, hefty man, with a heavy, serious brow and a monotonous voice that was thick in melodrama. Despite his chilled exterior, Jim knew that Arrow was a fine man, in a way that was different to fair faced Smollett, and radically apart from the dastardly, charming Silver, but it didn't help his liking for the man one bit.

If Arrow sensed his unease, it didn't deter the strong hand clamping down purposefully on his shoulder. Jim blinked in surprise at this odd display, so unlike prim, hard Arrow. Something was amiss here. He became aware of his gut attempting to bind itself into knots.

"You see, Mr Hawkins," Smollett began gravely, kneeling down by the chair as if speaking to a small child. "There have been...well, around this area, near the docks, on the outskirts of London...there have been sightings."

Jim's stomach plummeted. From the expression on his face, Smollett knew he had to say no more.

"You mean...pirates?" he whispered, forcing down a pang of excitement, anger, fear, at the thought. A pang ridden with foreboding, none the less. "Silver?"

"To be completely specific, his minions," replied the dense voice of Arrow behind him. "The ruffians evaded our grasp for questioning or rightful imprisonment." His tone became lower, quelled by a sudden frustrated pleasure. "And a rightful _hanging."_

"Samuel, please," quipped Smollett, lifting himself to his feet once more, his attention never once leaving Jim's. "Yes, Mr Hawkins. Most notably the villain known as "Blind Pew," and a few other stragglers. We shall make sure they do not get far, but we just thought we would ask..." Smollett rested a questioning hand on Jim's other shoulder. With both men leaning over him like (well meaning) vultures, the lad felt trapped in more ways then one. "If you have heard anything?"

Jim closed his eyes, observed the sinking weight within himself, and shook his head, suddenly exhausted.

"No."

Over a parade of awkward questionings, lukewarm tea, and the preventative, soul searching glare of Samuel Arrow, did Jim finally break away from the lounge with a silently apologetic Smollett in tow. The implication of what they thought, or had thought, or the fact _they had even suspected..._it had been hurtful, but his well honed manners and values won out; he hoped his sincere swearing to King and Country had been enough to dissuade their vague belief he might be conspiring with pirates. Least enough, _that _pirate.

A swirl of musky perfume and decorated feather broke his concentration. Benjamina Gunn...or now, Benjamina Smollett, as she much preferred, had come drifting into the main hallway, a sight to see in a large, flamboyant, pink meringue of a dress. Upon seeing her beloved, Benjamina physically restrained herself from smothering him in loud, wet kisses. Instead, she coughed politely and batted her eyelashes; smiling at Jim in what he hoped was a sisterly fashion. Plump, preening, and wickedly pretty, was Smollett's wife, the talk of London for her outrageous parties and oddball, wholesome adoration of her ironically mild natured husband. Upon sighting his wife, Smollett grinned until his eyes glittered; reaching past her trembling bosom to tap her hand demurely in affection.

Jim scuffed his boots on the polished floor in awkward silence, unsure of where to look. Uh huh. Somethings never changed.

"Benjamina," said Smollett softly. "I need to return to the study to clear up some businesses with Mr Arrow. Would you be so kind as to entertain Mr Hawkins here?"

Mrs Smollett beamed at Jim. "Of course, Mon Ami." Her bow lips formed a pout. "But why Mr Arrow, dear? Never in my life have I met such a insufferable bore."

Jim fought back a grin. So did Smollett too, it seemed, despite the down turning of his mouth at such a suggestion.

If Smollett's study was minimalist, then Benjamina's living quarters were a flourishing well of overbearingly ostentatious extravagance, with gushing pinks and screaming scarlet and winking purples. Jim shifted uncomfortably on a bright red love-seat, as the rounded figure in baby pink dotted to and fro just out of his eyeline. In his trembling hands, was the tempting warmth of hot chocolate; an unspeakably rare luxury imported from exotic lands. He took a suspicious sip, only to be embraced by a spreading warmth all the way down to his toes. It made him feel dozy, and a little bold.

Until then, Benjamina's conversation had been fleeting and trivial; she had recounted, in the sharp trills of her high, feminine tones, the weather and past boyfriends and Smollett. Now, she suddenly paused in front of the boy, smirking as the hot chocolate worked its magic. She seated herself opposite him, spreading out seductively on a long armchair, her dress raking up to reveal a soft, peach, curvaceous leg. Curling his toes in embarrassment, Jim tried to look everywhere as opposed to her...generous anatomy.

"M-Mrs Smollett..." he struggled to find the right words, as a certain name had stood out from amongst the Holy Bible of her past lovers. "You mentioned...that in your past acquaintances, you were _friendly _with a certain..."

"Ohhhh yes! Long John Silver," continued Benjamina lazily, without a hint of darkness. "Yes. It was a three month fling, right under the nose of that _incomprehensible _Flint. He was the quarter master back then; a real gentlemen, despite his shortcomings as a pirate, of course..." She wrinkled her nose, as if trying to recall certain details. "He was the lowly labourer, I was the Captain's wench...it was a love story before it happened."

She stretched out considerably, sighing as she did so, flashing a fair amount of breast. Jim focused desperately on the milky brown of his drink.

"Interestingly enough, we did little more then kiss. He was a charmer, I'll give him that, Jim...even if he was a heartless crook. He was charismatic, warm, but also good at making you believe you were the entire person on the ship that really mattered..."

Inside, Jim flinched, but it had nothing to do with the showings of her flesh.

"He used to tell me things, Jim. He was..." For a instant, the first, faint signs of seriousness creased her face. "Capable of a lot. He was a deep soul, and I thought, just passingly, at one time, that we could have cared for each other past a mere sideways wink on the ship."

She fidgeted, combing her fingers though the whimsical fabric of her dress.

"But Flint feared him, and even I did, a little. Even more so when we met on that accursed island. I saw a side of him I could only have guessed at. He didn't say a word when I was marooned, to be sure. Only Billy Bones spoke in my favour, but then he was silenced by one glance of that black hearted swine of a Captain!"

She froze, becoming aware of the heat in her voice, and the startled gaze of a certain young man.

Benjamina Smollett turned, and smiled, somewhat sadly, at Jim.

Outside, the sky was a thunderous black. The sweetly scented morning had been thwarted by the horrid promise of September storms. Jim Hawkins hurried home, the news of Smollett and Arrow, not to mention Benjamina's account, sending his mind reeling. Thunder cracked the sky, and all he could feel was the comforting press of his father's compass to his bony chest. It seemed the events of two years past still haunted them all, even the so called "preening, salted wench" that was Mrs Smollett.

The first drops of an icy rain teased his brow.

Ducking under a shop's overhanging roof for cover, Jim Hawkins failed to notice a calloused hand reach from the dim shadows of a alleyway, and Jim Hawkins did not notice, until it was too late.

He was yanked back, his cries muzzled by the tough skin of a sailor's palm; his feet kicking away into nothingness. He was pulled and pushed until he became aware of a dank, cold wall soaking his back, and a familiar, gruff growl muttering his name.

"Jimmy! Easy, lad, come now, its just ol'..."

James Hawkins felt his eyes bulge.

The face of Billy Bones swam above him.

_Yes. THAT Billy Bones. Reviews of all kinds are cherished, and so is constructive criticism. I'm already working on the third chapter. I have high hopes for this. x_


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